


Along the Way

by ShadowValkyrie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, M/M, Mentions of Violence, slightly baffling slapstick, some internalised homophobia and misogyny on Dean’s part, split POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-09 05:58:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowValkyrie/pseuds/ShadowValkyrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As if having his hands full getting used to humanity wasn’t quite enough, Cas finds himself snowed in with two cursed Winchesters, while an unhappy prophet, a hard-boiled interdimensional time-traveller, a cheerful hacker, and Cas’s former partner in world-conquest-related crime show bravery in the face of an oncoming holiday. Meanwhile, Dean hates having all kinds of feelings and nothing to distract him from them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Along the Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariados](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariados/gifts).



> Set somewhat nebulously between 9x06 and 9x09 and going AU before the latter. I suspect it’s not quite what you wanted out of the prompt, and it didn’t come out the way I planned either, but I hope you’ll enjoy it anyway! >.> My eternal gratitude belongs to the endlessly kind and patient Cienna, who granted me multiple extensions when both the story and my offline life got out of hand. Thanks for the beta goes to the fabulous Thursdaysisters – remaining mistakes and questionable style choices all mine. :) Happy (belated) Holidays!

 

“Okay, this is shit. Sammy?” 

“Yeah, here…” 

Dean spins, searching for his brother’s voice. “Please tell me the lights didn’t go out for you too?” 

“Wish I could say that.” 

“So you’re not seeing anything?” 

“No, Dean, I’m not seeing anything.” 

Obvious eyeroll in Sam’s voice, but Dean’s got to try again. “You _absolutely_ sure?” 

“No, Dean, I’m faking it, just to piss you off –” There’s the subtle shift in air pressure that always means Dean has gotten through to Zeke. Sets his teeth on edge, if he’s honest. When Sam speaks again, the familiar bitchiness is gone, replaced by a more neutral tone of general disapproval. “I am aware of the curse’s effects, Dean. It would be inadvisable to cure you of them. Suspicious.” 

“Couldn’t you, y’know, do it and then make Sammy forget the old bag cursed us in the first place?” 

“The risk is too high. Memory manipulation is never seamless. Sam has been starting to notice… skips, recently. This is too minor a matter to chance discovery over. The spell will abate by itself.” 

“You could take the curse off me? I’d pretend I’m still blind…” 

“No.” 

“So we’re what? Staying in this nice, drafty cabin with the corpse of an old lady and no food, and wait till the curse wears off or the neighbours come looking, whichever happens first?” 

“I should be able to deflect any form of cursory attention from the house as well as your car. The overall risks are still considerably more bearable than those resulting from direct interference on my part.” 

“How long will it take?”

“It’s difficult to say precisely. Anywhere between 24 and 48 hours.” 

“Awesome. We can’t wait here that long.” His bloody shirt is sticking to his chest already. “And I’m not making Sammy eat anything from a witch’s fridge! Especially not when we can’t even see what it is! I’m calling Cas.” 

“Dean. It’s too dangerous.”

“You got a better idea?” 

“The prophet…” 

“… is on, like, _twenty_ most-wanted lists at the moment. Kid’s not leaving the bunker. So you’re either going to take the curse off, or I’m calling Cas.” 

Sulky silence, then the pressure, the sense of… presence in the room, is lifted abruptly. 

“–because I’m five!” 

Yeah, that’ll never cease to give him whiplash. “Right. I’m calling Cas to pick us up.” 

Sam’s bitch-mode deflates, now that there’s a solution in sight. “Sure. Good plan. He doesn’t have a car, though?” 

“He’ll figure something out.” 

Dean goes through his phone list – not easy when you don’t see shit. He thumbs at random, hoping he’ll hit Cas’s number out of sense memory or something. 

_Yo, Barbarella, how’s it hanging?_ Charlie’s cheerful voice through the phone. Narrow miss, not bad. 

Wait. “What did you call me?” 

_Nothing! We’re still on for Christmas, right? ‘Cos I’m already in Illinois…_

“Oh, er, sure! Just, Sam and I are still on a case in Shitsville, Wyoming, and a little… stuck right now. Kev’s home, though, he’ll let you in.” 

_Got it! Anything else I can do for my second-favorite space princess?_

“Oh, shut up. How about you stop reading Chuck’s stupid damn books? You can do that for me!” But there’s no heat in it. It’s not Charlie’s fault he’s painfully obvious. He rubs his forehead for a moment after she’s hung up, still snickering like her joke had been funny. 

“Not Cas?” 

“Charlie. I’m trying again.” Hopefully he won’t get Don this time, or something. Two days before Christmas is not the time to settle two-year-old dope debts. When the signal stops, though, there’s a familiar gravel voice on the other end, and he breathes a sigh of relief. So what if that’s only half about not calling the wrong person? And a lot more about how that voice settles low and hot in his gut like whiskey on an empty stomach? No one needs to know that part. 

* 

“Hello, Dean.” 

Nora looks over from the shelf she’s stacking when he answers the phone. He is allowed to do that when business at the gas station is slow. There are few customers, today. The weather report mentioned an oncoming storm, possibly a blizzard. It’s strange to see the clouds amass through the window, see them pile up at the horizon and draw nearer, but not be able to feel them, feel the weight of hundreds of tons of drops of water, or the static electricity they generate as they rub against each other. 

_Look, Cas, I know you’ve got work, but this is an emergency? Sam and I got hit with a witch curse and we need a ride to the bunker…_

“As you said, I have work to do, Dean.” 

Additionally, they haven’t parted on entirely amiable terms. Dean had apologised, but not sufficiently explained sending him away, and without knowing what he did wrong, there’s nothing he can do to atone for it. Not that he hasn’t committed plenty of crimes and made disastrous mistakes he is perfectly aware of and still can do nothing whatsoever about, but none of those are Dean’s to judge him for, and as far as they were his to forgive, Castiel had been under the impression that he had. And yet he’s still not welcome. 

He starts when Nora comes up to him and touches his arm. Somehow he still expects the contact to spark a connection between them, a look into her heart, her thoughts… It’s disconcerting when that doesn’t come. He has had time to get used to not seeing souls when he looks at people, the quick, colorful washes of their emotions, and to not hearing the jumbled waterfall-rush of their thoughts, but he still expects touch to be… more. 

“Steve?” For some unfathomable reason, she smiles radiantly at him. “I think you should celebrate Christmas with your… friend. Ranveer will cover the holidays, and there won’t be much to do in this weather anyway.” 

Dean must have heard her. _See? Your boss doesn’t mind! Come on, man!_

He should probably be grateful. It’s always difficult to sneak into the supply closet when he’s not the last one on shift, and when the weather turns dismal, spending his off-time and the night outside will become unpleasant. He thinks he understands now why, even though central heating is such a recent invention, humans like to pretend they would be unable to live without it. 

What he is actually grateful for, he has to – somewhat shamefully – admit to himself, is the chance to spend a few days with Dean when he has long since resigned himself to never having that. 

He asks for the address and wonders idly what is going to go wrong this time. 

* 

“How long’s it been?” 

“Seriously? How the fuck would I know?”

They’ve been waiting for what feels like forever. It’s worse with no clock to check and absolutely nothing to do. They can’t even get rid of the stupid corpse, for fuck’s sake. At least there are no flies around at this time of year and for now the room just smells of blood. 

Dean has found them glasses and tap water, with a lot of fumbling about and bumping into things, and washed out the cut on his arm from the witch’s meat cleaver as much as possible, but otherwise they’ve been taking turns sitting on the single kitchen chair and the floor, respectively, for hours. He suspects he’s been dozing on and off, but it’s not like he can tell whether his eyes are open or shut most of the time. 

He probably wouldn’t even notice under normal circumstances, but with nothing to do but stare into the darkness, his wound throbs and makes him wish he still had something more potent than holy water in his flask. Apart from that, he feels like he has a hole the size of Texas in his stomach. Focussing on that is still better than encouraging Sam’s awkward attempts at small talk. Shutting those down is only justified, since Sam makes him stop whenever he starts humming something. He wishes they had a radio, but as far as he can remember from the quick look at the place when they stormed in, there’s too much creepy shit on every surface to do much searching around. One curse is plenty. 

“Dean? Do you hear that?” 

Dean didn’t hear a car or footsteps, but he does hear the door crunch open on the broken glass and feel the sudden gust of cold wind. So either the neighbours have found them, or… 

“Hello, Dean. Sam.” 

“Cas!” He’d be tempted to hug him, if he could see the guy. Not that he would – that shit is strictly ‘thought you were dead’ situations only, obviously. “What took you so long?” 

“Public transportation is less than optimal out here and there were few opportunities to hitch-hike. I had to walk the last three miles.” 

Dean winces. “Not awesome. – Talking about stuff that sucks…” He gestured vaguely towards his face. “Please tell me you know how to get rid of this curse?”

There’s a sudden touch of fingers to his cheek, and Dean’s breath hisses in sharply. But Cas is persistent, holding on and tilting Dean’s face up to – presumably – the light with gentle pressure. 

“I’m sorry, Dean. There is no physical change apparent, which, without my powers, makes it almost impossible to tell what specific spell was used and how to reverse it. On the other hand, this means the symptoms are likely due to an obstruction of energy flow between sensory perception and the consciousness and as such will disappear by themselves in time.” 

“How long a time are we talking?” 

“Difficult to say. More than a day, certainly. Closer to a week, by a careful estimate.” 

Dean sighs. Like he isn’t way beyond done with this already. “What time is it anyway?” 

“Six-thirty a.m..” 

“Well, no wonder I’m starving. Let’s get rolling! – Please tell me you know how to drive?” 

“These doubts should have occurred to you earlier, but yes, I do.” Damn, that’s his pissy-Cas voice. But Dean guesses that if he’d spent the night on a bus and in strangers’ cars he wouldn’t be in the best mood, either. 

Dean moves in the direction of where he guesses the door was, and runs right into Cas, who has apparently failed to move. He feels his face heat and carefully takes a step back. “What?” 

“What are we going to do about the body, Dean?” 

Sam is walking, hesitantly, by the shuffling sound of it, towards them as well. “There’s a canister in the trunk. We could just burn the whole cabin down to save time.” 

Dean has to admit that’s a good plan. Not like anyone’s going to miss this filthy dump anyway. Shame he won’t get to see the fire, though. 

Ten minutes later, Cas has the place torched and steers both Winchesters away from the blaze and to the Impala. Dean is a little miffed about only getting shotgun, until he remembers that the alternative is the backseat and decides to be smug instead. Until Cas has the gall to invoke “driver picks the music” on him and pop a Heart tape Dean didn’t even remember he had into the deck, that is. 

 

*

As if driving isn’t already difficult enough, with only the information from watching other people do it to go on, and hampered by the severely limited spatial understanding that comes with being human, Dean keeps up a running commentary of insults and encouragements. 

“I am not going to destroy your car, Dean. Please try to sleep. This is distracting.” 

Fortunately, the roads are empty, and once they reach the highway and the car runs more smoothly, Dean starts to relax. 

“For someone who never really learnt how to drive, you’re doing really good,” Sam remarks after a while, and there’s a grudging noise of assent from Dean, which Castiel appreciates very much. 

After a while, both of them finally fall asleep. It’s difficult not to do the same, with the monotony of the lane markings under his headlights, and the quiet snoring around him. He keeps the radio low anyway. The acute awareness of mortality – his and that of the Winchesters – is enough to keep him awake. He realises they do not have much of a choice in the matter, but he still feels touched that they trust him enough to sleep while he accelerates their fragile bodies to such lethal speed, even though he no longer has the capacity to heal them should an accident occur. 

The sun is rising ahead of them, red and blurred by opaque clouds, when Dean stirs. His shirt rides up to expose skin when he stretches. It makes Castiel’s mouth go dry. He forces his eyes back to the road. 

“Breakfast?” Dean asks hopefully. 

Castiel takes the next exit. He locates a diner quickly and pulls into the parking lot. “I shall get us food. What would you like?” 

“We’re coming with! Eggs and bacon to go sucks.” 

“That would be ill-advised, I think.” 

“As in, you can’t walk straight and your jacket is covered in blood,” Sam points out reasonably, when Dean looks about to protest that. 

Castiel is somewhat pleased with himself for correctly predicting that the Winchesters’ current state of dress might perturb the other patrons. His grasp of what is socially acceptable is constantly improving. 

Dean squawks and flinches back against the door when Castiel reaches into his jacket for a wallet. “Dude! What the fuck are you doing?” His face is flushed and his eyes wide. He seems flustered. 

This is confusing. “I need a credit card.” 

“Not funny, Sam!” Dean hisses, but hands Cas his wallet. He leaves them to their bickering. 

* 

When they stop for a leak a little ways out of town, Dean can feel snowflakes like pinpricks on his skin. The wind has picked up as well, tearing at his jacket with icy force and numbing his hands almost instantly. He’s glad when he’s managed to maneuver back into his seat with a hand along Baby’s flank. It’s strange how different it is, seeing nothing at all. Sure they spend a great deal of time in crypts, and abandoned houses, and other dark places, and their dad made them practice blind-folded when they were small, but doing things like eat and piss while he can’t see what he’s doing, that’s new. 

It’s quiet when they drive again. He tries to imagine the landscape rushing by, wide prairie under a heavy sky, winter-yellow grass dusted with snow, but it’s unsatisfying compared to the real thing. 

“Come on, Dean, talk to him already,” Sam had told him while they were waiting for their food. “I don’t know what went down between you guys, but it’s really uncomfortable to be around you both when you’re like that. How about I put my earphones in and you can just pretend I’m not even here?” 

“Why would you think there’s anything to talk about?” 

“There’s only reason you couldn’t have asked Charlie, or Kevin, or anyone with _an actual car of their own_ to pick us up, and that reason is definitely Cas. I don’t blame you for wanting him around for Christmas, but you could actually get out of your shell for five minutes and tell him, you know?” 

“Yeah, I’ll do that. Hey, maybe I can borrow some of your frilly panties to have that conversation in?” 

“Dean…” But apart from a long-suffering sigh, Sam hadn’t said anything more, because that was when Cas had come back. 

And it’s not like Sam’s wrong. Things _are_ still tense between them. Working the case together patched some things up, but after so much time jumping from one mess to the other on fast-forward, they never really had time to work through any of it – not Naomi, not Metatron, not even most of the shit that went down before that. How much of it even matters anymore, in the face of Cas’s newfound humanity? Dean simply isn’t sure where they stand right now. They’ve got a world of issues between them, and he wouldn’t even know where to start. 

“So, how’s, uh, gas-station clerking?” Yeah, that was probably not the best place. 

Cas is quiet for a second. “Undemanding,” he finally says. Dean can’t tell from his voice whether he means that in a positive way or not. It would be easier if he could see Cas’s face; over the years, he’s gotten good at reading the barely-there expressions. 

“Still holding out for a date from that MILF boss of yours?” Dean keeps his tone joking, but it hurts to think that Cas might easily say they’re together, actually, and have been doing cute family shit for weeks now, and Dean didn’t even know. 

“No. She made her disinterest clear.” There is a brief hesitation. Then, “I have given the matter some thought, and I don’t think your culture’s practice of ‘dating’ much appeals to me, after all. It’s a very convoluted system and the result necessarily unsatisfactory compared to… the kind of relationship I would want.” 

Dean can’t bring himself to ask what kind that would be. There are few not-death-related moments in his life he’s ever been as upset about as that time an amnesiac Cas introduced his supposed wife to him. And he figures that casual sex isn’t something that’d work for him either, especially after the last time had gone over so stellar. 

“So, um, found an apartment yet?” 

“Yes, Dean, I’m settling in fine, thank you for asking,” Cas says, anger suddenly sharp in his voice. 

Dean swallows. He never could get the hang of this whole talking-about-shit thing. 

The silence stretches into something painful. He picks up the box of tapes and puts it down on the seat between them, nudging it towards Cas. 

The peace offer seems to be understood, because Cas’s voice is considerably softer when he pushes it back and says, “You choose.”

Dean can indeed find most of his tapes without looking. They all have different scratches, cracks, paper stickers, and missing corners, and he has them memorised from years of rooting around the footwell without taking his eyes off the road. Comes in handy when driving alone, or with a passed-out Sammy riding shotgun. 

He puts on some Cash, because he remembers Cas’s fondness for the guy. They’re still not talking, but it’s a little more comfortable now. 

* 

The snowfall gets heavier, and by early afternoon, everything is covered in white and the Impala is the only vehicle in sight. If not for the telephone poles, the road would be hard to make out. He has to drive slowly enough that the Winchesters notice something is wrong. 

“If it’s that bad, we should stop at the next motel,” Sam suggests. “You gotta be dog-tired anyway?” 

Now that Sam mentions it, he is. It has been hard to concentrate for a while, but he is used to pushing through worse. “I could still drive, but I suspect the road conditions are becoming a problem.” 

“I knew I should have packed the fucking snow chains.” Dean sounds furious – more than strictly warranted by the situation. 

Castiel frowns. “Are we in a hurry?” 

Dean mumbles something unintelligible, while Sam says, decisively, “No we’re not. Don’t worry about it.” 

Dean pouts. 

“Stop pouting,” Sam chides. 

“How the fuck can you even tell –“ 

“I know you.” 

Castiel frowns. “What is the matter, Dean?” 

More grumbling, then, gruffly, “At this rate, we’ll never make it home in time for Christmas.” 

Sam snorts. “Wow, there’s a sentence I never thought I’d hear coming out of your mouth!” 

“Stop mocking me, Sam!” He turns to Castiel. “I had everything _ready_ , you know?” He doesn’t, but fortunately, Dean explains. “Tinsel garlands, and straw stars, an honest-to-fuck pine tree, and fucking spray-on frost for the windows…” 

Castiel still doesn’t understand, but refrains from pointing out that humanity, as a whole, has spent a significant amount of both time and ingenuity – not to mention their continuous expenditure of fossil fuels – to get to the point where sub-zero temperatures inside their houses are no longer a concern for most of them. 

“…red ribbon, gold ribbon, silver ribbon, glass ornaments, and a tree-topper, and mistletoe, and fairy lights… oh, and candles, obviously…” 

Castiel ventures a questioning look back towards Sam at this unexpected outburst of seasonal enthusiasm, but Sam, apart from being unable to catch Cas’s eyes in the mirror anyway, seems focussed on whatever music he is listening to on his telephone. 

“What would you need all this for?” he finally interrupts Dean’s litany of decorative items and outlandish foods. 

“Dude! Christmas!” There’s something desperate in his voice that begs him not to ask further, so Castiel doesn’t. 

They find a motel soon after that. Its red-and-blue neon lights are haloed by the blowing snowflakes. The parking lot is already crowded; he has a hard time finding a free space. 

They decide Sam should book them rooms, because he is more familiar with the procedure, so Castiel makes him leave his blood-spattered jacket and leads him to the small office. Several people are standing outside under the eaves, smoking, but they don’t do more than nod in their direction. It’s strange how little fighting there is involved in human day-to-day interaction, in contrast to what it was like to interact with other beings as an angel. He still braces for hostility instinctively and feels confused when it doesn’t come. 

From Rita, the grey-haired woman behind the counter, they learn that there is only one free room left and the TV has paper-view, whatever that may be. After all, it’s not like the world doesn’t already look flat to humans anyway. 

He doesn’t think having only one room will be a problem, seeing as it will actually make working around the Winchesters’ visual impairment easier, but apparently, he is wrong. 

* 

“What do you mean, ‘one room’? Your sasquatch legs have been to long to make that work since you were _twelve_!” They’re inside said room now, and as far as Dean’s hands can tell, the beds are no broader than usual motels beds. 

“We’re not going to share a bed, Dean,” Sam snaps. “You can share with Cas. I’m _pretty_ sure neither of you is going to mind!” 

“You know, it’s funny how I can _hear_ the eyeroll when you speak. And for the record? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Well, he does, but forcing Cas – vulnerable, human Cas, who is just trying to live a normal life – to deal with Dean’s perverse crush on him is just wrong. 

“I don’t mind sharing a bed with you, Dean,” Cas pipes up oh-so-helpfully. “Until the middle of the last century sharing beds platonically was very common – in many cultures it still is. But if you are uncomfortable, I don’t mind sleeping on the floor.” 

Yeah, no. “I don’t need eyes to know that that carpet is super gross, man. And ten bucks says the tub is even worse.” 

“It’s your choice, Dean. Stay here, both of you. I’ll bring in your bags.” 

Great. Just awesome. It’s not like he _minds_ sleeping with Cas, quite the opposite, but with Sammy one bed over and the ‘platonic’ hanging heavy in the air, the whole thing can’t possibly end up being anything but awkward. 

Before Sam can attempt further discussion about why he’s so sure Dean and Cas sharing a bed would be such a spectacularly good idea, in his opinion, Dean declares, “Dibs on the hot water!”, turns on his heel towards where the bathroom should be, and runs right into a wall. 

* 

“What’s wrong, Cas? You’re quiet.” 

“I still don’t understand the connection between the assumed birthday of the prophet Yeshua and the simulation of hypothermic conditions indoors?” It’s easier to talk about than Dean’s aversion to spending the night in close proximity with him. And it makes Sam laugh, which is nice. 

“Prophet? You mean the Muslims are actually right and Jesus isn’t the son of god?” 

He doesn’t see how theological discussions over the facets (or basic validity) of Trinitarianism are relevant to enlightening him about the connection between the holiday and multi-colored blinking reindeer. “There are inaccuracies in all religions. Every prophet contains a spark of the divine, so in this case, too, neither belief is completely right or wrong,” he says dismissively. “Now please explain to me why Dean appears to have an atypical preoccupation with festive decorations this year?” 

Sam’s face falls at that, and if he actually saw anything, he’d be studying his shoes intently. 

“Well, you know, I haven’t been doing so great lately?” he asks hesitantly, tilting his head towards the bathroom for a moment to make sure the shower is running. “The trials to close the Gates of Hell did a number on me. I mean, you kinda saw for yourself how bad it was when we were hunting that angel tablet and you said you couldn’t fix me? So I guess it’s some fucked up miracle that I’m even still alive. And lately, I don’t always want to be.” It comes out in a quiet huff, like it was a difficult thing to say, but he’s glad he did anyway. 

It’s not a surprise, really. He has always seen dark hole in Sam’s soul and the way it pulls at the rest of him, sometimes more, sometimes less, but always there. It makes his heart feel heavy anyway. “Does Dean know?” 

“Yeah. That’s why he’s being that way. With the decorations and stuff. The only time he’s ever really given a shit about Christmas since we were kids was the year his Hell deal came due. The more fucked-up things get, the harder he tries to pretend it’s fine. At the bunker he’s been playing full-on housewife, cooking food and cleaning the place and insisting everyone use coasters. It’s pretty creepy, actually.” 

“Does it help?” 

“I don’t know. Probably not? I mostly just wish he’d stop hovering and give me some space to figure this out for myself, you know? It’s not like I’m actively suicidal, or anything. But I need to figure out what to do with my life now that heroic sacrifice is out, and I can’t do that while my big brother is breathing down my neck and keeping sharp objects out of my reach. And it’s not like it’s making him happy, either, as much as he may pretend otherwise. I’m just glad he’s not drinking again – I can live with the tinsel in exchange for that.” 

“Have you talked to him about this?” 

“I tried, but… You know how he is. He’ll run from an ugly truth until it comes full circle and bites him in the ass.”

Which, Castiel supposes, is essentially accurate. “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

Sam hesitates again. “Be there for Dean? Take care of him when I can’t? I don’t know what made you leave this time, and it’s none of my business, but every time you do, it screws with his head a little more.” 

Before Cas can enquire further – after all, he most decidedly did _not_ leave of his own volition – Dean’s telephone on the table starts ringing. With a look at the still-closed bathroom door, he picks it up carefully. 

_Dean! Did you invite people for Christmas? Because I didn’t, but here they are!_

“Hello, Kevin. I’m not Dean.” 

_Castiel? Why the hell are you answering Dean’s phone?_

“He is in the shower. We rented a motel room,” Castiel says, and isn’t quite sure why this makes Sam snicker, but he is glad it does. 

_Um, wow. That’s… a lot more than I needed to know. But go you! Finally! Wait, where is Sam?_

“He is here with me. I suspect he will want to take a shower as well.”

Instead of laughter, he reaps a strangled noise this time, and a groan from Kevin. _Super. Just super. Mental images, man. Anyway, tell Dean to call me back!_

Castiel assures him he will and hangs up. 

However, he promptly forgets about it, because Dean comes out of the bathroom in nothing but a towel, and that is a very distracting sight. 

* 

“Dean! You should have told me you were hurt!” 

Being grabbed by his shoulders and forcefully sat down on the nearest bed shouldn’t be as hot as it is. Cas prodding painfully at his wound from last night, is exactly as awful as it should be, though. Probably he didn’t clean the cut well enough, if Cas’s worried mutterings are anything to go by. There’s some rustling, then Sam produces the first-aid kit from his duffle and talks their ex-angel through the clumsy process of human medicine. 

But even though it’s Sam telling him what to use when, and how, being patched up by Cas feels completely different, and not just because the temporary blindness enhances the sensations. Sam always makes sure to be clinical and keep the touching down to a minimum, but Cas’s hands are warm and always on him, one steadying him, while the other works. Dean hopes to every fucking thing holy that both of them will blame the fact that he’s breathing faster on the pain, even though the burn of the disinfectant barely registers in comparison to feeling Cas’s hand over his heart. This has got to be the longest they’ve touched, well, ever, and it’s hard not to get lost in that. At the same time, he feels a knot of guilt heavy in his stomach, because Cas didn’t ask for this, probably doesn’t even realise Dean’s getting all hot and bothered under his flimsy towel. He lets out a deep breath, almost relieved, when Cas clips the bandage closed and his hands slip away with a last, lingering slide over Dean’s ribs. 

Cas’s voice is rough when he says, “I should go and find us something to eat.” 

“Yeah, um, okay.” And damn, his own voice is barely a croak. 

The door clicks shut behind Cas a moment later and Dean scrambles for his clothes, face still burning and incredibly glad his baby brother can’t see the tent he’s pitching. 

“You two are ridiculous, you know that?” Sam sounds somewhere between amused and annoyed. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Samantha!” 

“Come on! I can’t see anything at the moment and I _still_ have to watch you pining for each other. It’s embarrassing.” 

“Pining. Really, Sam? I’m not gay!” Not generally, anyway. Though sometimes his dick begs to differ. 

Put-upon sigh. “Believe me, I know! You don’t really believe in the whole locking doors thing, unfortunately... Like, two thirds of all girls I’ve ever seen naked were in your bed at the time. But there’s such a thing as bisexual, Dean, and you are the sad, repressed poster child for it.” 

And that’s that, because Cas picks the best possible moment to come back – “It seems we will have to wait out the storm; it’s impossible to see anything at the moment.” – before Dean can somehow dig himself in deeper, out of some frantic, panicky instinct to deny everything as angrily as possible. He’s just glad Cas doesn’t have super-hearing anymore. 

Now he’s stuck thinking about it. He can’t even watch TV like this, damnit. Without food, TV, research, or internet porn, Dean has nothing if not time to think. Which is a massive pain in the ass. 

Okay, so Sammy knows. Not really surprising, since Dean can’t help dropping hints sometimes. It’s like a compulsion. Wanting to be found out. Like one of those creepy serial killers who drop clues for the FBI on purpose. Nothing that couldn’t be denied, of course. He’d never take a guy to their motel room and risk being caught, or something, but small, ambiguous things… those just happen. Part of him has always wanted Sam to know, but not to tell him, not talk about it. He wants to live in the comfortable awareness that his brother knows and still sticks around, but not have to make any fuss about it. That little moment back there was excruciating enough. And it’s not that’s he’s ashamed or thinks it’s wrong, really. It’s just… messy, complicated. But yeah, mission accomplished on Sam’s part, he guesses? 

Confessing to Cas is another matter altogether. The guy is about as enthusiastic about tearful heart-to-hearts as Dean is. Less, if such a thing is possible. On the other hand, Cas can’t flap his wings and disappear in the middle of a conversation anymore. Which may be a good thing, or just make everything more awkward, he’s not sure. But still, better get that out of the way before the sleeping arrangement question comes up again. And then maybe Cas will agree to let _him_ sleep on the floor instead, even though it’s gross. Not like Dean doesn’t deserve it. 

So when Cas declares an hour later that the snow is easing up, Dean grabs his jacket as well and insists on coming with. “You gonna be okay, Sammy?” he asks, half out the door already. 

“Sure!” But then there’s that neck-hair-raising pressure shift again. “Talk to him all you want,” Zeke says, “but you should know better than to tell him about me.” 

Dean takes a deep breath, cursing his own stupidity all over. “Scout’s honour,” is all he says, biting back the, asshole. 

When he closes the door behind him, though, the snow crunches right behind him. Looks like Cas isn’t halfway to the car after all. Well, shit.

 

* 

“That was not Sam,” Castiel observes calmly, when they’re out of the motel parking lot. It has stopped snowing for now, but the clouds are still hanging low and heavy with a promise of more. They are walking, not driving, because he doesn’t trust himself to drive safely in the almost knee-deep snow. He also enjoys walking with Dean’s arm tucked in the crook of his elbow for guidance, but he won’t tell him that. 

“Yeah.” Dean looks troubled, and Castiel gives him time to sort out what to say, even though he feels nervous tension all through his body the way he never did when it was only a vessel. Be despite the unpleasantness: if humanity has taught him one thing, it’s patience. 

“I think I fucked up,” Dean finally admits. “But after the trials, Sammy was dying, and… I just couldn’t, you know? I couldn’t let him! So when Zeke offered help, I tricked Sammy into saying yes to him.” He sounds wrecked. 

Not surprising, since he traded his brother’s free will for his life. Castiel knows what that is like – a conscious betrayal of everything one fought for so long, simply because the alternative is worse, so unspeakably, horrifyingly worse that it’s not an option at all. “You saved his life, Dean.” 

“I guess? It’s why I’d do the same fucked up thing in a heartbeat if you were to take me back in time. Don’t make it right.” 

“It doesn’t.” He has learnt that the hard way. “But you did what you had to do, and you will make amends when you can.” It’s never enough, but maybe he can let Dean believe that it can be, for a while. 

Dean takes a deep breath. “Now I’ve got an angel sitting inside Sammy, though. And I’m starting to think he’s not leaving easily…” 

“Sam doesn’t know.” 

“Nope. Zeke said he shouldn’t, because otherwise he might expel him?” 

“Once a vessel’s consent is given, it normally remains binding indefinitely, but Sam was made to contain an archangel, even defeated one. He has enough willpower to resist the possession of a lesser angel and cast him out.” 

“So if we could find a way to tell Sam…?” 

“…he could do the rest himself, yes.” 

“Do you know how?” 

“There are ways. I’d have to think it through, but I’m certain we can find something that will prove feasible.” 

Dean’s relief at that is palpable for a moment, then his shoulders draw up again. “What if he’s not healed enough?” 

“He will be. With his grace weakened by the Fall and Sam’s condition as serious as it was, it would indeed have taken Ezekiel longer than usual to heal his vessel, he did not lie to you about that, but it can’t have taken him this long.” 

“Could he have stalled to have leverage against me?” 

Castiel frowns, troubled. “Possibly, but I doubt it. Healing one’s vessel is an automatic process; stopping it would require constant effort.” 

Dean breathes deeply. “Okay, sounds good. What do we do and when do we start?” 

“We shouldn’t do it here. There are too many people around, and depending on the spell, I might need supplies beyond what we have in the car. It would be difficult to set up without Sam noticing, as well.” 

“So, our safest bet would be to pretend everything is fine and set a trap at the bunker?” 

“I think so.” 

“Good, we’ll do that then.” The look of grim determination is familiar on his face, and Castiel has to admit he missed it. 

* 

The diner is practically across the street from the motel, but with the snow and Dean’s blind staggering through it, they need a while. 

He feels better than he has in a while – messy feelings aside – now that the cat is out of the bag and there’s a plan of action in the making. Cas acceptance and sympathy help more than he would have thought possible. 

He thinks about it, while they order their food. Maybe Cas won’t freak out about the gay thing, either? _Bisexual_ thing, he corrects himself. 

Before he can come to a conclusion, or think of a good way to start that conversation (“Hey, before we share a bed – have you ever thought about getting fucked in the ass before? Just asking.”), his phone starts blaring _Hotel California_ through the mostly quiet diner. (Sam had insisted he change Kevin’s ringtone to something different than _China Girl_ , for some inexplicable reason.) 

_Look, Dean, I get it if you’re too busy getting up to freaky orgies to call me back, but we have a situation here!_

“Whoa, calm down! What’s up?” 

_Did you invite people for Christmas? Because Charlie came, and she brought friends!_ He still sounds pretty harried. 

Dean doesn’t get it. “Glinda and Dorothy?” he asks carefully. 

_Yes! And now they’re here and you’re not, and I don’t have food besides soy hot dogs, tinned gravy, and five different types of ginger shortbread._

Oh. “There’s a ham in the freezer.” He hopes they will, between them, manage to cook it without setting the kitchen on fire. Shame, though, he was looking forward to making that one. 

_The creepy, we-store-our-peas-with-the-mermaid-eyeballs freezer?_

He isn’t technically wrong. “We only have one freezer.” 

_Awesome. Now I’ll be cooking food I don’t eat for people I didn’t invite on a holiday I don’t celebrate and not get anything at all done._

Dean rolls his eyes. “Kevin, I think you’re the first guy to ever complain about getting to celebrate Christmas with three hot lesbians!” 

_You are so gross._

Dean grins. He can practically _see_ that scrunched-up face. “Tell you what, kid: there’s eggnog too. Pantry, third shelf, right side. Try to have fun!” 

He hangs up, but the phone rings again immediately. 

_Dean! Your lesbians are decorating my library! I can’t concentrate on anything! This is a disaster! I mean, they brought in a tree? And the tree-topper wears a tiny trench coat? Where would they even find something like that!_

“We’re not having this conversation. Find the eggnog and chill the fuck out. Bye, Kev.” 

* 

“You know what’s strange?” Dean asks when they’ve collected their food. (Paid for with Dean’s credit card, from inside Dean’s jacket, where Dean had let Castiel pull it out without flinching this time, which was very satisfying.) “I was really looking forward to having a Christmas party with Charlie, Jody, Garth, and everyone else, but right now, I don’t mind not being there? We’re snowed in somewhere I’m guessing must be halfway through Nebraska, and Sammy’s still possessed, but… it doesn’t feel quite so bad anymore.” 

“I like being here with you as well, Dean,” Castiel says softly. A realisation hits him. He stops in his tracks. It makes Dean, whose arm he’s still holding, stumble and grab at him for balance. “Did you… send me away because of Ezekiel?” 

Dean seems about to protest that, but then he deflates, and finally nods. “He said it was dangerous to have you around and made me choose: either you leave, or he lets Sammy die. And I guess at that moment I got the memo that this dude is all kinds of shady, but it was kinda too late by then?” 

“I understand.” In a way, Castiel knows he should resent Dean always choosing his brother over him but he doesn’t. He can’t imagine Dean without that loyalty and caring, and he doesn’t want to. 

“I’m sorry, Cas. I really hated seeing you go. To fucking have to _send you away_.” He takes a deep breath and closes his sightless eyes. “I wanted you with me so bad. But at the same time, I thought, hey, maybe it’s better that way, anyway? You could do something with the second chance you got, you know? Have your own life, a normal, human life.” 

Of course Dean can’t know how similar these words are to those Metatron had spewed at him, but Castiel feels anger well up, anyway. “I don’t want to be human, Dean. I don’t want a ‘normal’ life. I want my life to mean something, and to atone for my sins in a way that makes a difference.” 

“Oh.” Dean frowns. “But… you seemed so happy with your job and all that?” 

“For a while I told myself I was. That it was my way to do penance and I should embrace it. But… I realise now that it was merely a way to attempt to escape my true purpose. That I tried to lose myself in the everyday banality of human existence to dull my pain, not to work through it.” 

“Shit,” Dean says quietly. “You never would have told me, would you?” 

“You made it clear that I wasn’t welcome.” Castiel smiles sadly. “I have my pride, Dean.” 

Brief, pained laugh, then a surprisingly well-aimed elbow-nudge into Castiel’s side. “Bet you were lying about that stupid apartment, hm?” 

“I was.” 

* 

Dean decides that that’s been quite enough talking, thank you very much. It takes him a moment to work out the logistics, but once he has both hands on Cas’s face, all he has to do is lean in. 

Cas makes a startled little noise, but doesn’t pull back. His lips are plush and warm against Dean’s cold-stung mouth. His rough stubble chafes against Dean’s freshly shaven face, hot and interesting. 

It’s a clumsy kiss, but heartfelt, and Dean doesn’t give a shit that they’re in the middle of the motel parking lot. Not being able to see anyone makes it easier to pretend no one’s seeing him. He just wishes it wasn’t so damn cold, because with those many layers between them, he can’t feel Cas’s hard body pressed up against him the way he wants. 

“Cas?” he asks, breathless and giddy, when they break apart. “Wanna be a hunter and stay with me after we exorcise my brother?” 

It’s a shame Dean can’t see his face, those blue eyes going wide, but he doesn’t need to, because Cas’s mouth catches his again, and Dean doesn’t care about snow melting chilly into the legs of his jeans anymore, because there’s _fire_ in the kiss this time. 

“Took you a while,” Sam remarks, when they finally make it back to the room, after more heated kissing. And some aborted groping, because, too damn cold. And public. Not that Cas seemed to mind, the kinky fucker. 

Oh, he means the food. Right. “Yeah, um, kinda got stuck talking…” 

Rustle of plastic, then the crunch of Sam’s fork hitting the rabbit food. “Wow, that must’ve been a good talk! Pretty sure my salad is frozen.” But he sounds amused more than anything else. Dean hopes that Zeke catches enough of their sexed-up vibes to erase any suspicions they might’ve been plotting against him. 

“Would you do me a favor, Sammy?”

“Hm?” 

“Have one of those two-hour showers of yours? Where you use all those twenty kinds of hair cosmetics that you drag everywhere with you?” 

Sam makes a choked little sound. “Dude, seriously? Half an hour ago you try to pretend you’re straight and now you want to fuck a guy while I’m in the next room? No dice, man! Two, they’re called shampoo and conditioner and you should try them sometime!” 

“Yeah, I don’t care. One hour? Sammy, come on! Please?” 

“No! I’m going to eat my icy salad, then we’re going to watch TV, and later we go to bed – and you’re going to behave yourself ‘til we’re back at the bunker.” 

* 

Dean does not seem especially discouraged by Sam’s veto. He insists on eating his burger while sitting on the bed and makes Castiel sit by his side. His free arm sneaks around Castiel’s waist slowly, only moving whenever either of them rustles with his wrapping-paper to mask the sound. The furtiveness of it is amusing and the touch makes him feel warm inside, so Castiel doesn’t stop him. Not when Dean balls up his paper and tosses it nowhere near the trash receptacle, only to land his now-free hand on Castiel’s thigh, either. 

Castiel hazards the occasional glance over at Sam, but he’s turned towards the screen and seems oblivious, eyes staring blindly into the middle distance. His presence doesn’t bother Castiel – privacy is unknown to angels. 

They watch TV for a while that way. Whenever an implausible car chase or unrealistic explosion increases the volume, Dean’s hands on him become bold – unbutton his jeans, slide under his shirts... When Castiel moans at the tantalising touch of skin on skin, Dean goes still, then presses a finger to Castiel’s lips. But Sam still doesn’t seem to have noticed. 

After a while, Dean guides Castiel’s hands to his own clothes, eyebrows drawn up in a cautious request that Castiel is only too happy to oblige. His hands are fumbling the buttons with nervousness, but Dean is patient with him. 

Castiel can’t say the same thing about himself. Cupping his hand over Dean’s erection as soon as he has the zipper open makes the other man hiss and pull back, however. “Um, bathroom!” he mumbles. Castiel wonders what he has done wrong for a moment, but Dean grins, wide and promising, and winks at him, before feeling his way across the room. It must have been a ruse, Castiel realises, because when he returns, he is naked, golden and glorious, and kneels down at Castiel’s feet, rests the side of his head on his leg and rubs his cheek against it like a cat. 

For a moment, Castiel just stares down at him in confusion. 

Then Dean’s hands find the waistband of his boxer shorts and pull them down. Without hesitation, he grabs the shaft of Castiel’s penis and takes the head in his mouth. The feeling is too incredible not to moan, and the soft sucking noise coming from Dean isn’t very subtle, either. 

Sam whips around. “Are you making out over there? Jesus, Dean! One more day, come on!” 

Dean pulls back. “Not exactly…” he snickers against Castiel’s knee, but fortunately Sam has gotten up and is staggering to the bathroom in a furniture-grazing huff. 

Dean seizes his absence to dive back in and swallow him whole. It makes Castiel feel like he’s been hit over the head – dizzy and incoherent, his whole body tingling – but in a good way. Just when he becomes aware that his climax is imminent, the bathroom door opens and Dean pulls off. 

“Your turn to brush your teeth, Cas,” he suggests, innocently, despite the mild scratchiness in his voice. The words take a moment to penetrate the haze of desire clouding Castiel’s mind. He stumbles across the room and finds himself in front of the sink, with an ache in his testicles and blood pounding in his ears, before he realises that what Dean meant was for him to undress as well. 

When he returns, Sam is tucked into bed. “I’m gonna listen to my audiobook. Should I leave the TV on or do you guys want to sleep? – And I mean sleep!” 

“Yeah, Sammy, just leave it on for a bit.” He sounds like he doesn’t care, but grins up at Cas conspiratorially. 

Castiel waits until Sam has his earphones in, before pushing Dean onto the bed. They roll around; the slide of their naked bodies against each other feels wonderful. Very different from Dean’s mouth on him, but pleasurable enough that he could reach orgasm from it, especially once Dean has him on his back and thrusts their penises together rhythmically. 

Dean seems equally close, panting hard and barely stifling his groans against Castiel’s shoulders. 

It’s good, but Castiel has the notion there should be a way to take the edge of frustration off, that sense that they could be even closer. “Fuck me?” he whispers in Dean’s ear. 

It makes Dean go rigid on him. His erection jumps hard against Castiel’s hip. But after a moment, he shakes his head. “Not yet. Gonna need to see your face for that.” 

And while Castiel is disappointed, he does appreciate the sentiment. He directs Dean’s face to his own for a kiss and bucks his hips up a little to nudge Dean into re-establishing their rhythm. He does, until the sweaty glide of their bodies against each other drives them both over the edge only a few moments apart. 

There isn’t much Castiel enjoys about being human, so far. Orgasms, while they were initially disturbing, are very high on the list, however. He finds his esteem for them is increased even more when it’s Dean who coaxes them out of him. 

It’s fortunate that the curse didn’t choose that moment to wear off, and that Sam’s earphones appear to be very good, because both of them are loud enough to make the neighbours knock. 

* 

Dean wakes up with Cas curled around him and snoring against his neck (very nice), and his phone making a racket on the bedside table (not so much). Christmas morning, three a.m.. Awesome. 

“Kevin?” 

_Merry Christmas, Dean!_ he slurs.

“The connection is pretty bad…” 

_Yeah, I’m in the dungeon right now. I just couldn’t deal with the carolling anymore._

“Kevin, are you drunk?” 

_Kinda? There was eggnog._

“And…?” 

_Now there’s not, and I’m in the basement, with the King of Hell._

Shit. “Ooookay. Look, Kev, whatever you’re doing right now is probably a really bad idea…” 

There is actualfax _giggling_ on the other end, then a rustle, as the telephone seems to switch hands. _Oh, no, it’s fine!_ Crowley’s whiskey-roughed British lilt. Shit. _We’re having a blast!_

Pretty much every scenario going through Dean’s head right now involves severed limbs and enough blood to drown a giraffe. 

Crowley seems to realise this. _Don’t worry, Squirrel, I’m still tied to my chair, mostly unmutilated, sadly, and your prophet still has all his squiggly parts. None of them wrapped up in something sheer and interesting from your secret organisation’s prop room, I hasten to add, but we might get there yet... For now we’re drinking sub-par port and playing halma. It’s very therapeutic. Give Moose and Feathers a kiss from me. Ta ta!_

Dean stares at the phone. Cas takes it out of his hand and switches it off with a huff. 

Wait. It takes the blue glow of the screen winking out to make Dean realise that he actually saw it. “Cas! The curse is gone!” 

Cas burrows back under the covers and sneaks an arm around his waist to pull him back down as well. “Good. Go back to sleep, Dean.” 

And well, Dean does. With his brother close by and his angel even closer. Still a little shell-shocked by the sudden change of direction his life has taken, sure, but happier than he can remember being in a long damn time. 

“Merry Christmas, Cas.” 

“Sleep, or I will make you.”


End file.
